The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming. Judy Duarte

his chin, felt the stubble of the beard he hadn’t shaved this morning. That shower he’d been meaning to take after he’d taken his morning pain meds was long overdue.

      “Well,” he said to Hernandez, “I’m going to head back to the house. If you start making a list of chores you’d like me to do, I’ll get started on them tomorrow.”

      “All right. I’ll do that.”

      Joe gave Lola’s neck one last stroke, then strode toward the barn door. He hated not knowing anything about himself. And while he continued to get some fleeting thoughts about his character and things he liked or disliked, he had no idea how to cobble them together.

      After entering the living room, he took a moment to survey the leather furnishings, the built-in bookshelf in the far wall, the stone fireplace with photos lining the mantel. When he noticed one of a smiling marine in uniform, he made his way to the hearth so he could take a better look.

      He lifted the brass frame and studied the fair-haired man’s image. He wished he could say that he recognized him, but he didn’t.

      “That’s Dave,” Chloe said.

      Joe turned toward her voice. She stood in the doorway that led down the hall to the bedrooms. The moment their gazes met, he felt another stirring—one that was far more appealing than the scent of leather and hay that had provoked his senses in the barn.

      “His mother never understood why he’d joined the service in the first place,” Chloe said. “As the only child, the only son, he knew his father expected him to stay on the ranch and take over someday. But I’ve sensed there was more to it than that. I think he had a blowup with his dad, although he never said anything to me about it.”

      Joe took another gander at the photo in his hand.